


Honey, Spread Your Wings

by Sunjinjo



Series: Wings, Scales, Nightingales [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Flying, Former Cherubim Aziraphale, Former Ophanim Crowley, Gardens & Gardening, M/M, Metaphysical Angel Shenanigans, Post-Canon, Repetition Compulsion, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Wing Grooming, Wingfic, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-02 09:17:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21159257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunjinjo/pseuds/Sunjinjo
Summary: “What the Heaven are you doing up here?”In which Aziraphale finds out Crowley likes to get high, and a few other little wing-related bits of fun. Can be read as a standalone work.





	1. Starsong

_Sammy was low  
Just watching the show  
Over and over again…_

Picture this…

The curve of the Earth, stretching on and away. The twinkle of stars overhead. Cold empty silence at world’s end, world’s _edge_, in a way early humanity couldn’t possibly have foreseen. Though they hadn’t been all that far off with the whole ‘ships falling off the edge’ bit. After all, getting caught in orbit is just falling forward, without pitching down, forever.

A demon floats here at world’s edge, motionless like a torn plastic bag under a still water’s surface, able to get by in both worlds but not really of much use in either.

His wings are huge, his eyes are wide. He’s hooked a pair of sunglasses into his collar so they don’t float away. Stars are reflected in sulphur-yellow irises, slit pupils gone almost round.

_Knew it was time  
He'd made up his mind  
To leave his dead life behind_

Anthony J. Crowley had recently become a bit more comfortable with his own true self, taking to consistently showing those sulphur eyes to one particular person. A little more recently still, he’d taken to showing his wings to that same person every now and again as well. Not usually with the intention of flying, mind; his particular person quite liked going for little trips, but mostly provided they remain little and end up somewhere comfortable – restaurant tables, theatre seats, the like. Crowley did not mind this in the slightest. He was very fond of speed himself, but preferred enjoying it encased in something sturdy and man-made. He was all for using his wings in, say, the tempting invitation to an embrace, wrapping them around angelic shoulders, or further enhancing a dramatic gesture, but where it came to feeling the wind in his hair he really did prefer his Bentley. He certainly didn’t want the old girl to start feeling left out, or worse, jealous. Hell hath no fury like a vintage car scorned (he should know).

And yet, here he was, dithering at the edge of space.

It was like sleepwalking, really. You followed the beaten path, the familiar route eroded not in the world, but in the mind. Even if the geography has changed and you end up bumping face-first into walls on the way. Back to what you know, even if you haven’t belonged or been welcome there for well over six thousand years.

_His boss said to him  
Boy you'd better begin  
To get those crazy notions right out of your head_

Angels don’t dance. Likewise, demons generally don’t fly. Sure, they can all manifest wings of choice, which is usually a lot more diverse than Heaven’s uniform white feather model, but have you _seen_ Hell? Those cramped corridors and mouldy chambers lend themselves as well to flight as to being dwelled in for any other purpose, really, which was just as well because that was the whole _point_ of damnation.

The wings of demons are rather like those of angels, only better groomed, for lack of any actual use.

_Sammy, who do you think that you are  
You should've been sweeping up the Emerald bar_

The stars were quiet. Of course they were quiet, they were always quiet, had been since he’d been kicked out from between them. He hadn’t expected otherwise. And so, Crowley brought his own music, of sorts.

“_Spread your wings and fly away  
Fly away, far away…_”

He didn’t sing well, but he sang quietly, and besides, sound didn’t travel well in this barely-there-air anyway. The words rang less true than they used to; he didn’t actually want to go any further than this, not anymore. There were things worth coming back down for. Still, coming up here was comforting, in a really chilly way. Not a habit easily broken, even if he only indulged in it every couple centuries.

“_Spread your little wings and fly away  
Fly away, far away…_”

Something stirred him from his void-gazing. A sound.

Sound didn’t carry here; he’d just made a mental point of that. And yet he was hearing something. If he’d been a cat, his ears would’ve swivelled in perturbed annoyance even before bafflement at hearing something at all would’ve gotten through – much less hearing _this._

It was a flutter. A very familiar flutter at that. Bafflement shouldered right through annoyance, and Crowley abruptly flung himself around.

“Oh, my dear! There you are! Goodness _gracious,_ what are you doing all the way out here?”

He knew it was the angel even before the breathless words registered. Not only would no one else ever have been able to catch up to him up here, but again, _sound didn’t carry_ in the bloody exosphere. The only reason Aziraphale could make himself understood from more than a few yards away was because he wasn’t aware of that fact, and simply assumed his words would have the decency to deliver themselves to the demon without issue.

“You look ridiculous,” was the first thing Crowley uttered. Unthinking, perhaps, and born of an emotion rather incongruent with his words, but not wholly undeserved either.

Aziraphale was clearly having trouble with this altitude. His wings were beating furiously to very little effect, more of a helpless milling than anything resembling proper flaps at this point. There was ice on his feathers and glittering in his hair. Combined with the frost-nipped flush of red on his cheeks and nose, Crowley figured he hadn’t been entirely unfair; the angel looked rather like the Christmas ornaments depicting his ilk he could never help harping[1] on.

He had other priorities to focus on. The angel’s breath came in laboured little stutters, and he couldn’t possibly be more out of shape and out of his element here.

Crowley’s brain caught up to him, and he reached out to catch the angel by the elbows and hold him up. “Stop trying to breathe, you idiot – lungs aren’t made for air this thin – here, take my warmth –” He shoved the blanket of his imagination towards Aziraphale a bit too fast, and the angel gasped when he was suddenly wrapped up in Thinking Very Hard of Not Freezing to Death. “Oh – oh, thank you –”

“Shift your wings bigger, there’s no need for all that fluttering.” Crowley twitched his own monstrous, motionless wings in demonstration. “Barely any air resistance up here, you’re gonna need the extra surface.” He relaxed slightly; his angel was warm again, warm and safe and _here._

Aziraphale obliged in inexperienced, stuttering bursts, enlarging his white wings until they matched Crowley’s, uneasily keeping them still and spread in the almost-void. Size and shape were only options for them, but the angel wasn’t used to this particular set. “Oh, this is quite ingenious. Thank you, dear.”

“What the Heaven are you doing up here?”

“_Well!_ I can ask the same of you, this beats sleeping on the ceiling! I got up for some light reading and you were gone, darling. I thought we’d agreed not to do that to eachother.”

Crowley grimaced guiltily. “Well, I did leave the amulet, didn’t I.”

The black tourmaline amulet had been a very thoughtful Christmas present from Anathema, primed towards locating and tracking occult entities. As long as Crowley kept it on himself, it kept its hissing and sputtering to itself. Whenever he had to leave on short notice, he left it with Aziraphale so the angel could figure out where he was when needed, even without going back to the bookshop to call him.

The angel was right, of course. They _had_ agreed not to leave eachother wondering about the other’s whereabouts, mainly because of the reactions Crowley had had to Aziraphale’s absence ever since a certain Soho fire.

“So you did,” Aziraphale admitted. “The signal was very weak, which was worrying, but I managed to follow it.” The angel stopped himself from trying to beat his massive wings for the third time in as many heartbeats, wrapping his arms around himself instead. “That’s not to say I _stopped_ worrying when it only led me straight up.” He shot Crowley a Look. “Crowley, how often do you do this exactly?”

Not _why._ Just _how often._ Crowley softened somewhat. “Eh, you know. Once in a while. Last time around ’69. Went a bit further then, though.”

“Are you – Crowley, did you go see the _moon landing_ up close?”

“Might have.” He glanced up at the pale, knowing face of Earth’s only natural satellite high above, or ahead – not really any distinction up here. He recalled how damn proud of humanity he’d been that day. Demons didn’t fly – be that as it may, he’d buggered right off of Earth to chase after the Apollo 11. He grinned just thinking of the premium view he’d had of the small step for man, blending into the darkness of space overhead the way only a demon could. “Hey, did you know the moon’s Catholic?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Aziraphale fussed. Then the dangling lure of absurdity registered, and his whole demeanour radiated reluctance for one more moment before he took the bait. “Alright, _what?_”

“Moon’s Catholic,” Crowley repeated, gleeful at his triumph. “Fell under the bishopric of Orlando when the Apollo landed.”

“Oh, that’s ludicrous.”

“The bishop that got elected just one year earlier didn’t think so. Flaunted it to the Pope and all.” Crowley found himself unable to stop grinning; somehow with the angel here to annoy, his little bout of stargazing was a lot more fun than all those times he’d come up here by his lonesome. “Hey, aren’t your guys supposed to be all about humility?”

“I thought we agreed humanity was also on its own side,” the angel smiled. “And even bishops should therefore be allowed a bit of fun.”

“Fun,” Crowley echoed, “in organized religion?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.”

“You’d be surprised at my lack of surprise, angel, I invented a good few very fun cults. But when Heaven’s involved?” He hummed, shook his head. “Not buying it.”

“What I’m not buying,” the angel said, tipping his head upwards, “is that we could’ve made it all the way to Alpha Centauri back then.”

“Oh, that’s _foul._ You just told me not to change the subject on you –”

“Crowley, it was a fright just coming up here. I don’t know how far away those stars are exactly but I do know the distance I’ve just flown isn’t a _shadow_ of a fraction of –”

“I would’ve found a way,” the demon blurted out, stopping Aziraphale in his verbal tracks. “I would’ve.”

“Darling, you haven’t been out there in aeons either.” The angel’s smile was impossible, fondness and admiration and something that ached even worse all in one.

“I would’ve carried us both,” Crowley stubbornly insisted. “Shifted us both into energy and taken us all the way there. You wouldn’t have had to worry about a thing.”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale clumsily twitched his wings, drifting closer and gently taking the demon’s shoulders in a manner that wasn’t clumsy at all. His eyes roamed Crowley’s features before bashfully flicking back up to his eyes. “I do know that. I do.” With nary a touch, he sparked points of blooming heat under Crowley’s clothes, and a rather more insistent fire in his chest that almost made him lose track of keeping the warmth of his imagination going up here. “It’s just that… when we _do_ end up going there, I won’t want you doing all the work.”

“Ngk.” Crowley was glad for the lack of gravity. His legs could turn to jelly all they wanted up here. “Wait, _when?_”

“Well. If the invitation still stands…”

“We could wait until the humans make it there, you know. Shouldn’t take long now.” The demon grinned hopelessly, babbling away and steadily losing all his cool to the frigid void overhead. “I always hoped they’d make it to another planet before the War. They might still outspeed Head Office now.”

“All the more reason to get there ahead of them,” the angel murmured. “Enjoy a little privacy while we can.”

_…Oh._

“We’d, uh, have to get a little practice in, then. I’m, I’m only slightly less rusty than you –”

“I’m sure this old Principality can still learn a few tricks,” Aziraphale smirked, eyes hooded, just before leaning in and thoroughly scrambling Crowley’s brain.

Here was the thing. Kissing the angel felt like giving gravity the finger any time of day, but there was usually still the matter of retaining some bodily composure to focus on. Moreso for someone as serpentinely inclined as him. Kissing in actual zero G, Crowley firmly decided as his hands tried to figure out where to leave themselves, was something else. Something else entirely than solid ground, reckless flight or even idly lazing in bed. There was nothing else to ground him, literally nothing but the languid movement of Aziraphale’s lips, soft hands on his sharp cheeks, the angel’s body pressed up against his own. He was so warm. Simply keeping out the cold of space had nothing on him. Crowley was fairly sure the angel was generating his own divine heat now, like a miniature sun, and he was burning up with it.

His hands finally came up, snaking into a weightlessly fluttering coat, pulling Aziraphale even closer. Their celestial selves bled together at every point of contact between them. _Oh, angel._

_Take me with you next time you come up here?_ Aziraphale hummed back.

_Mmm. Might._ Crowley’s aura wrapped itself around the angel’s light in a sinuous caress, cradling it against the unforgiving void around them just as he held his physical form, and that had Aziraphale hitch and falter. His next glowing thought was barely articulate, mostly consisting of image and emotion, but just as clear as any spoken word. _I’ll be here. If you need me. I’ll stay as long as you want me to._

Oh, _stars._ How Crowley loved him.

_Pull yourself together  
‘Cause you know you should do better  
That’s because you’re a free man…_

Aziraphale let out a little chuckle at the equivalent of angelic choirs ringing through Crowley’s head. The demon grinned back, gently drawing back physically, but keeping his eyes closed and marvelling at the way their occult and ethereal selves swirled into eachother. Aziraphale’s hand found his, their fingers entwining. Their auras followed, and they shone like a galaxy.

_Come on honey  
Fly with me_

“The stars are quiet,” Crowley muttered. “But…”

He couldn’t say it, but he didn’t need to. Aziraphale could feel it as clear as the day that dawned across the curve of the planet, half a world away. _You’re all the starsong I need._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1No pun intended. Although Crowley wasn’t above stereotyping the Host, of course. [return to text]


	2. Icarus of the Fearless Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley deals with a celestial method of self-harm / repetition compulsion, and I get some sky-time out of my system.

Crowley blinked against the sunrise peeking over the curve of the Earth, painfully glaring for lack of atmosphere to dim the frankly atrocious light. He and Aziraphale floated so high above the surface they might soon officially leave Earth altogether, and for all practical intents and purposes they already had; the border between exosphere and space was rather blurry, after all. And without proper experience, not even an angel – Fallen or otherwise – would get their physical vessel back down from this height.

Luckily, Crowley did have that experience, and he could always count on imagination to fill in those pesky gaps in what the laws of physics normally disallowed. He shook himself, narrowing his eyes just as his pupils constricted into hair-thin slits in the light. “That’s usually my cue.”

Aziraphale followed his gaze, and Crowley’s heart gave a funny little flutter at the realization the angel had been staring at him, limned in sunrise gold as he was, the whole time. “To go back down?”

“Yup.” Crowley couldn’t meet the angel’s gaze. “What’d you say we, uh, go back to bed? I’m all stargazed out, and besides,” he gave a vague gesture, “there’ll soon only be the one star left to gaze at anyway.”

“Back to bed,” Aziraphale echoed, slightly scandalized. “At sunrise?”

“Won’t be sunrise yet on the surface. We could race the dawn home.” Crowley tried to grin, and failed. “I mean, I… usually do.”

Oh, _Manchester._ He shouldn’t have said that. Bless him and his big mouth.

He could see the angel understand, in a ripple of faint horror passing over his face. “Crowley. Do forgive me for being terribly forward, but, um. How… how _fast_ would you usually come down from here?”

“Oh, you know. Best to get it over with as quickly as possible.” His voice wouldn’t behave. He was aiming for nonchalance, but that completely missed the mark and ended up in orbit somewhere. He knew it’d be chuckling at him on its next go-around, and cringed in advance. “I let myself drop, alright? Nothing to worry about. I already survived the longest fall there is, I’m not scared of this piddly dive.”

He technically knew there were other, gentler ways to come down from a height like this. It was just that, well, none of them had ever felt _right_ for him in particular. And there was always a horrible sort of elation in folding his wings of his own accord, giving gravity the required permission to latch on, the way he’d never gotten to that first time. Even if the horror of what followed wasn’t so much a stab as well as a fully functional chainsaw rattling away at his ribs and spine the entire way down, and for all the insistence that he was in control and certainly not on fire this time, he never did seem actually able to open his wings until the last second.

…but maybe, if he staged enough falls out of his own free will, the memory of the original freestyle dive would ease up on him a little. That was how that worked, right?

Maybe Seneca the Younger had said it best. _Errare humanum est, persevere autem diabolicum._ ‘To err is human, to persist in erring is of the devil.’ Those silly philosophers were right more often than they knew.

Normally he’d already have closed his eyes and plummeted from orbit. Now, he merely narrowed them, bracing himself for Aziraphale’s reaction. Damn it, he was so transparent he barely even cast a shadow.

“Oh, my dear…”

There it was. The upset, that horrible little tremble in his voice that _he’d put there…_

“…that doesn’t sound like very much fun at all. Not really my style, I really would prefer not to.” Two warm hands clasped his, and Aziraphale offered him a wide smile, blinking something back only briefly before meeting Crowley’s eyes, gaze warm and steady. “Indulge me, just this once?”

“Wh-”

“Let’s enjoy the dawn instead of racing it. I mean, look at that _view._” And now the angel blinked in an entirely different way, weaponizing the effect he damn well _knew_ he could have on Crowley. He cocked his head just so, and Crowley let out an incredulous huff of laughter. “Oh, you bastard.”

“You shouldn’t have any qualms in letting me show you a thing or two,” said Aziraphale, without missing a beat, “if I am indeed as much of a bastard as you seem so very fond of claiming.” And bless it, but he might just as well be dressed and coiffed like a French _aristo_ again, nothing else could properly fit the prissy, _wonderful_ matter of course in getting his way that spoke from his posture and expression now. “Well?” the angel added for good measure. “Fancy accompanying me on a little angelic descending from on high, darling?”

And what could he, or any demon for that matter, possibly say to that? Crowley briefly closed his eyes, mouth twitching as he willed away a slight dampness of the eyes. “Alright.”

There was nothing saying he couldn’t be a bit of a bastard, either.

Aziraphale _yelped_ as the first little whiff of gravity caught hold of them, snapping their massive wings upward as they dropped like startled bricks. Crowley chuckled, and imagined a second bit of it, and a third, sending them down as though skipping down a staircase of air. Aziraphale swatted his arm. “_Crowley!_”

“The first bit of it will have to be done my way, angel,” the demon grinned. “Not even wings this size can do much to air this thin –”

And then Aziraphale shifted his wings back to their usual size, and the planet seemed to grab hold of them both like a dog leaping up to catch a frisbee in slow motion, and the angel suddenly had _weight_ in his arms.

Crowley was only offered a smug little smile before Aziraphale slipped from his grasp and began a lazy downward spiral, leaving the demon grappling with his own relative weightlessness and then forcing him to shift his own wings back as well. “Hey – wait for me –”

“There’ll be no waiting,” the angel coyly called back. “The only way is down, you’ll have to come and get me.”

“_Shit, shit, shit,_” Crowley hissed between his teeth, with the absurd feeling of precariously balancing on nothing at all, and only realizing he was cussing out loud when Aziraphale shot up a look of admonishment.

_Shit,_ he concluded, rebelliously. He was already having second thoughts about this.

It was such a long way down. Oh, this was ridiculous, he was being _ridiculous._ But he’d never had to _think_ about _descending_ for _this long_ –

Why’d he have to go and stargaze, again? The bed had been perfectly comfortable. Warm. Safe.

He just couldn’t bear dragging this out. There was nothing else for it. He let out a pained growl at the back of his throat, folded his wings and let himself drop to Aziraphale’s level, the angel’s presence the only incentive he had for pulling out of his dive when he did.

Said angel fluttered in alarm, promptly rising past him. “I say! There’ll be no falling either, dear boy!” He softened, extending a hand. “Come here. Glide with me. We’ve done this plenty of times before, now –”

“Yes, but never from this height,” Crowley managed, spiraling both physically and mentally, fully expecting his voice to come out in a squeak and almost being surprised by something only marginally more dignified. “I just – I just want to get _down._” He hesitated, then corrected himself. “I want to _be_ down, it’s the getting there that’s the problem. Angel, please.”

Aziraphale reached out, gathering the demon’s hands between his own and maneuvering himself below Crowley as they glided, effectively obscuring the curve of the planet behind fluffy white wings. “It’s quite alright. Just look at me, dear.”

He loved those wings, he really did, but as messy as they usually were, now there was also icy wind rustling up through the angel’s feathers. Positioned like this, Aziraphale’s wings barely provided any lift. “Now _you’re_ falling –”

“Shh. Just look at me.” One warm hand came up to cup his cheek, and the demon leaned into it, its softness a sharp contrast with the unyielding tension in his jaw. “I’ve got you. And you’ve got me. Right?”

“…Right.” One thing he did know for certain; he’d never let the angel fall.

“I’m not afraid.”

It was true; there was absolutely no trace of fear in those wonderful, stormy-sea eyes. Despite their colour, they were as calm as a windless pond. It was astonishing, really; Crowley had only ever known the angel in a state of anxious fidgeting, always worrying over something or other, at least until he or some beloved, insufferable hobby like gavotte or stage magic had managed to distract him. Since Armageddon hadn’t happened, all that had changed. There was an unshakable calmth and faith there now; faith no longer based in Heaven, but in himself, and what the two of them shared. Crowley found it amazingly easy to latch onto.

His breathing slowed. Aziraphale rested their foreheads together, even as they still half-fell and half-drifted down through an ever denser atmosphere, gently spiraling as Crowley’s motionless wings caught the air and Aziraphale’s also did their part in slowing them, despite his less-than-ideal position. Their pace was calm and steady and almost controlled, even though Crowley could feel gravity sinking its hooks in, its pull ever stronger…

Distraction, distraction. “You uh, you really don’t mind missing out on a good night’s rest? You just got into sleeping, I wouldn’t wanna…”

“Oh no, don’t you worry.” Aziraphale fondly ran a thumb up and down his nape, making him shiver. “A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight,” he spoke, fondness just as clear in his voice, “and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.”

“Very apt.” Crowley relaxed somewhat, looking over his angel’s wingspan and seeing the sunrise they were keeping pace with; a slight rosy blush was starting to creep in around the bright glare on the horizon, and it was beginning to resemble something one might see from the surface. “Who said that?”

“Oscar Wilde. And he was right, you know. There’s a lot of beauty to be found in missing out on sleep.”

Crowley gave an amused smirk. “Is that ssso. Did much nightly inspiring on him, then?”

“Many writers do their best work at night, I’ll have you know. He barely needed me for it.”

The demon chuckled. “Admit it, angel. I know a crush when I see one.”

Aziraphale slightly turned away, demurely pursing his lips and glaring from the corner of his eye. “Perhaps. He was the very finest of company at the time.”

“At the time? Ah, only because you were lacking the company of a dashing demon that century, surely.”

“Hmm, and such a humble fellow, too.” But the angel was smiling, the glimmer of fond amusement in his eyes rivaling Crowley’s. “Shall I tell you something else concerning the dawn?”

“No better time for it, is there.” Crowley tried to look down, but Aziraphale gently pulled him in, redirecting his attention. “An angel, robed in spotless white, bent down and kissed the sleeping Night,” he cited mischievously. He leaned in to do just that, brief and teasing, withdrawing just before the demon could deepen the contact. “Night woke to blush; the sprite was gone,” he murmured, just a whisper from the demon’s lips. “Men saw the blush and called it Dawn.”

Crowley took in a sharp breath, pupils dilated and his complexion indeed rather matching the sunrise. “Paul Laurence Dunbar,” the angel just managed to get out before the demon hungrily claimed a proper kiss, and dawn’s fire flooded both their bodies. Aziraphale let out a little sound, and Crowley shivered as the angel kissed him back, relentlessly pulling him in with that impossible, inescapable softness only he was really capable of.

His head spun with it. He’d expected to have to face a fall though cold and darkness as the price to pay for his bout of stargazing, not a gentle glide through this overwhelming warmth with the soft devotion of Aziraphale’s lips on his. Even the otherwise unbearable sensation of the long descent felt like something decidedly weightless now.

The angel broke the kiss with a loving, lingering touch of hands framing his face, leaving Crowley with a stupid fluttery smile and a head and heart full of downy feathers. It took him a moment to process the angel spinning out of his semi-fall and leveling his wings to glide beside him, and another to really grasp what he was looking at now.

“You’re a vision in this light, dear, all fire and gold.”

The sun’s light had reached the English cloud blanket below them, pouring red and pink and gold all over it in patterns not unlike the choppy waves of a frozen ocean. Crowley realized Aziraphale had only removed his wings from the view below when it’d turned into something truly stunning, and then he realized he didn’t regret having his eyes open and his view unobstructed. He never did take the time to appreciate the view on his compulsive divebomb descents. Maybe that was a shame.

“There might be something to this,” he managed, feeling as though his chest might burst.

“Beautiful, isn’t it.”

Crowley looked to the side. The angel was only looking at him. He smirked, a smidge of demonic slyness finally creeping into his eyes again. “Oh, is it?”

Aziraphale cleared his throat and averted his eyes in a slight huff while Crowley chuckled. “I couldn’t agree more, though. A stunning view indeed.” The demon unabashedly admired the rosy glow blushing on tousled curls and wind-whipped wings, grinning as the angel’s cheeks flushed fiercer still.

“Oh, hush.” Aziraphale couldn’t seem to decide between turning away and stealing glances back at Crowley, in a way the demon had caught countless times throughout the ages when the angel thought he was being sneaky. It had been the most endearing thing then, and it still was now.

“It does look a bit like…” The angel narrowed his eyes in thought, then clasped a hand to his mouth, giving a startled flap. “Oh, oh dear.”

…That was less endearing. Crowley didn’t need that sentence finished; he knew exactly what Aziraphale was getting at. “Like Heaven, eh. The way it used to glow, before they turned it into a sodding _office block._” Aziraphale had witnessed that change as it’d happened, as Heaven cycled through a mimicry of human fancies without understanding or appreciating any of them, eventually settling on the least inspiring of them all. Crowley’s memories of the luminous celestial realm were only marred by his last, very recent visit, and therefore perhaps sharper than the angel’s.

Then, before he could sink into unpleasant thought or Aziraphale could move to speak, a new sound joined them in the ethereal quiet; a sort of whizz, ever so subtle. The angel cocked his head. Crowley’s eyes widened as the sound grew louder, unfurling into a shrieking roar relentlessly growing in volume until it very rapidly threatened to start popping eardrums.

“Oh, bugger bugger _bugger_ –”

“Not to worry – it’s not anywhere near –” And then Aziraphale’s words were lost in the howl, even as Crowley furiously tried to pull him along, higher, away, anywhere. The angel was more or less right, though. When the Airbus 350 rose above the clouds, it was whole _yards_ away from them, merely sending them tumbling backwards on a supersonic gale instead of shredding them to ethereal and occult ribbons.

“An Earthsent omen,” the angel laugh-shouted over the tumult as the manmade monstrosity lumbered away from them, rising up and onwards with an improbable lack of grace for a winged thing. He fluttered frantically to right himself in the remains of the slipstream, then reached out for Crowley’s hand. “I stand corrected,” he uttered breathlessly. “It’s nothing whatsoever like Upstairs.”

Crowley stared at him, wings and hair all ruffled. Then his eyes flicked down through the whirling hole the airplane had torn through the clouds, where predawn London sparkled up at them like so many kitchy rhinestones. Heathrow Airport was a particularly bright blot of light pollution, reliably sending humanity up to altitudes they really had no business being but went anyway. These skies belonged to the humans now, a little more with every new innovation, and they were nothing like the Heaven he’d Fallen from. That glittering gap below was nothing like the stygian Pit that’d once awaited him.

And seeing, as they say, is believing.

“I mean, could you imagine the Host manifesting themselves here now, with an airplane taking off every five minutes?” Aziraphale giggled. “They’d never manage to make those dreadful trumpets heard. And oh, I can see Gabriel now, all six wings milling to keep up with a jet, the great blowhard!”

A smile crept onto Crowley’s face at the mental images and the angel’s stifled laughter. His fingers twitched in Aziraphale’s grip, and then, rather suddenly, he was kissing him – choosing to stifle his wild grin against Aziraphale’s mouth rather than letting it be seen. Aziraphale cupped his face with a startled laugh, instantly answering the mad, unspoken thing and taking everything Crowley needed to give right now, capably, happily, eagerly. _You’re alright,_ he said, voicelessly, through touch and caress alone. _We’ll free ourselves from all of it eventually._ And although his heart was thrumming like a frantic little feathered thing, the demon surrendered to that idea at last.

Coming up for the thin air they didn’t need, Crowley realized both their wings had finally settled into a comfortable, synchronized rhythm. When Aziraphale noticed this as well, he closed the distance between them a second time, dragging the demon right back under that giddy, dizzying surface. They blindly angled their wings, sending them spiraling down towards the fiery sea of clouds, and when they broke away from one another it was a good thing they’d already kissed eachother breathless. The sight of the other bathed in sunrise fire in the crystal air, surrounded by the soaring pillars of cloud, would’ve stolen what was left.

“Angel,” Crowley beamed. “_Thank you._ For all of this.” His wings beat steadily, drifting on the remains of the airplane’s slipstream slowly receding into calmth. “I think… I think this might be just what I needed.”

“A new way down, and a few good memories to go with it?” Aziraphale had clasped his hands at his stomach the way he often did while walking, and coupled with his knowing little smile and the light caught in his wings it painted such a frankly unfair picture Crowley might just have to tell him to knock it off. “…Yeah,” he only said instead, averting his smiling eyes in self-defense. The sunlight was strong now, and London was an opalescent vision below them, caught in that liminal state between day and night, sleep and waking. It was many things at once, but one thing it wasn’t was _mundane;_ it was just as incredible as the place where he and Aziraphale hovered now, both physically and mentally.

Crowley knew exactly what to do.

With nary a wingbeat, he’d taken the angel’s hands in his own. With nary a look, he’d communicated his intentions, loud and clear.

“_Oh_ – Crowley, we don’t have to –”

And then the angel took in Crowley’s monstrous grin, complete with serpentine fangs and stretched under fully yellow eyes, but genuinely joyful, exhilarated, ready for this. “Yes we do.” _I’m not afraid,_ was what he didn’t say, but Aziraphale heard it anyway.

“…Yes we do!”

And Crowley pulled him backwards, two pairs of wings folded in a rush of air, and they plummeted through the clouds together, allowing gravity to take over. Their eyes remained fixed on eachother, wide but not fearful, Crowley’s shining purest gold in the light and Aziraphale’s shining in reaction to the joy he found there as their hair was blown back, their hearts pounded out of their chests and the Earth rushed up towards them ever faster.

They pulled up just below the clouds, spreading their wings with a rushing blow flinging back shrouds of golden vapour all around them. Just a moment later the sunlight fully pierced the clouds around them, enveloping them like a sheer curtain, bathing London in a glow right between Heavenly gold and Hellish fire.

Aziraphale came out of his freefall with an elegant swoop, catching himself with wildly swerving wings to come to a fluttering halt and keep a close eye on Crowley. The demon hadn’t slowed down at all, using his momentum to keep right on soaring, weaving around the angel in great circling arcs the way he was wont to do far more subtly back on Earth. Aziraphale flapped in place, turning to follow the demon as he soared around and around, wings spread wide and chin tipped upwards in elated relish. His black feathers caught the sunlight in the most breathtaking way; they didn’t normally shine, not the way his rainbow-sheen scales did, but now every vane seemed to be gilded, highlighting their dark hue. His hair and skin glowed with it; fire and gold again, seemingly come alive in his demon’s joyful form. For just a moment, he was too beautiful to bear. Aziraphale caught himself holding his breath, feeling like he might combust with it.

Then he realized exactly what was waiting to burst from his lips. He wetted them. “Would you,” he hesitantly called out, “would you allow me to recite one last thing? Something by Wilde that always made me think of you?”

“’I can resist everything except temptation’?” the demon grinned back.

“Cheek,” Aziraphale smiled. “No, it’s a bit more plain I’m afraid, but I couldn’t help but associate…”

“Go ahead.”

The angel took a breath, clasping his hands together again, slightly wringing them. “Never regret thy fall, O Icarus of the fearless flight,” he started, each word carefully enunciated, as though delivering a message of great importance. “For the greatest tragedy of them all is never to feel the burning light.”

Crowley’s flight slowed, halting in an almost motionless hover a few yards from Aziraphale. The angel waited, trying to still his fidgeting as the demon turned the words over in his head. He’d been privately wishing he could share the poem with Crowley ever since it’d been put to paper; it captured his admiration for the demon’s resilience and integrity like nothing else, be it perhaps a bit too candidly.

“…It’s. Well. It’s a bit on the nose, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale bit his lip. “I’m sorry, I didn’t –”

The demon angled his wings and drifted closer, mouth quirking in a smile. “I see exactly what he meant.” He took the angel’s face in his hands, gentle as a whisper, and oh, the kiss he pressed to Aziraphale’s lips was so tender and careful that all the angel’s thoughts tripped and faltered, poetry and worry falling out of his head all the same. The demon smiled as he felt them go, marveling and amused, grateful and understanding all at once. “I don’t regret my Fall, angel,” he murmured. “Not anymore, not with how things ended up. Being stationed on Earth wasn’t so bad. Being able to save you from hellfire was even better.” Crowley’s smile widened seeing the speechless angel’s expression. “Icarus got a taste of the light before his fall, but I did _after,_ didn’t I? Brought me here. Could’ve had a better reason, maybe, but…” He shrugged. “No sense crying over burnt feathers. Not when I get to snuggle up in _these._” He ran a gentle hand through Aziraphale’s fluffy, wind-ruffled coverts.

A smile lit up the angel’s face. “Well, if you’re asking.”

“If you’re offering…”

“We’d have to get back to solid ground,” Aziraphale said meaningfully, just before yelping as Crowley flashed a grin and folded his wings around them both, snatching them both from the sky. And in a mixture of completely arbitrary bouts of falling and gliding, with interspersed somersaults and corkscrews just for the Heaven and Hell of it – and laughing all the while – they descended from on high, and went home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I looked up repetition compulsion about halfway through writing this, when I actually realized that was what I was tackling, and suddenly it all made sense. That's also when I stumbled upon the Latin phrase. It really does write itself.
> 
> I'll probably add another chapter at some point, there's some more wing-related things I want to explore - but they could all function as endings of their own, so for all intents and purposes this thing is complete for now.


	3. Air With Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale is bothered by a stain he knows is still there, underneath.
> 
> I mention/explain/elaborate on things that happened in Principal, Cardinal (Aziraphale’s demotion, Crowley’s apple tree) and In Good Hands (their engagement, Crowley’s former angelic rank), but you don’t have to have read those. ^^

Crowley’s apple tree drank up the sunrise as soon as it came sliding in through the window of the demon’s study.

Well, maybe it was a bit of a stretch to call it _Crowley’s_ tree, as such; it was first and foremost its own tree, but truth was that Crowley had planted it, tried to bully it into a meticulous and rather artful bonsai shape, and then accidentally, during a decidedly unguarded moment, miracled it into a fully grown tree scraping the walls and ceiling of his plant-lined hallway. Truth also was that Aziraphale’s regular visits had had enough of an encouraging influence to leave the tree unaffected by the Fear of Crowley, instead only taking the suggestions it happened to like from the demon’s bullying. It did very well in the spacious hallway, to the baffled incredulity of the other plants, constantly blooming and bearing fruit out of contentment rather than fearful perfectionism[1]. It might or might not be giving the others ideas. All this might or might not line up with the mental state of the resident demon, too, which might explain why it was allowed to carry on its rebellious ways.

Still, its leaves were always slightly ruffled in mild annoyance every time Crowley miracled away all the apples it so generously provided, even though it would smugly refill its branches just as quickly, and on occasion litter the entire floor with fruit just to spite the demon.

Right now, with early sunlight on its leaves, the apple tree wasn’t concerned about a thing.

The demon and then the angel had passed it by and left just after midnight, vanishing into the sky and not coming back as the night dragged on. The apartment was quiet, the bed remained empty, the kitchen devoid of bustling angelic presence. But, again, the tree wasn’t worried.

Its branches definitely did not gently droop in relief at the telltale vibration of familiar voices and then the unlocking of the front door, oh no.

“We had such a nice speed going, angel. We could’ve easily bypassed the walls with a little miracle, flown right on in.”

Even though it didn’t have ears to hear or any real capacity to understand, the apple tree picked up on the sound of _fussing._ “It’s really no way to go about though, is it? What if we’d been seen?”

“Really.” Crowley gave Aziraphale a flat look. “As if we haven’t been preventing all of London and half of Heathrow from _seeing us_ tonight.”

“Alright, but we could’ve knocked something over, or gotten tangled in your plants with those big wings…”

“Eh, it’d serve some of them right.” A venomous glance passed through the hallway, lingering on the apple tree, which pointedly did not whistle and look the other way, because of course it couldn’t. Alright, alright – time to get back to photosynthesis and the flow of sugar to its fruits.

“I recall a request for _snuggles_ being made, dear.”

“I recall nothing of the sort, but I do believe you offered something to that extent,” Crowley decidedly didn’t remark offhandedly, unable to keep his smile in check.

With a gentle _whoosh_, white wings filled the hall. Crowley’s smile turned to a smirk for the briefest moment. “See? They fit just fine…”

Then his face fell. “…On second thought, let me reconsider.” His eyes skimmed the windblown expanse of Aziraphale’s wings. Feathers stuck out at odd angles all over, jagged gaps fallen between barbs. “Did they get this messed up on the way down from the clouds, or did you dazzle me _that_ thoroughly up there? No, that can’t be just from the one flight.” He reached out and gently raked his fingers through a jumble of down, coverts and lopsided secondaries as the angel self-consciously withdrew his wing. “Doesn’t look comfortable. Allow me, instead?”

Aziraphale’s guilty expression relaxed somewhat. “I did promise –”

“Sod that. It’s only fair, too, me doing you a favour after the way you helped me up there.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Absolutely.” Crowley took the angel’s hand. “Come to the couch with me?”

Not that long ago, Crowley hadn’t had a couch (black, with a subtle scaly pattern). Or a fuzzy carpet before it (a stylish, deep burgundy), or pillows and fleece blankets for further comfort (an assortment of atrocious colours and patterns, courtesy of Aziraphale). Not that long ago, he hadn’t had anyone to help him groom his wings in that cozy spot either, instead usually perching on his throne or sprawling in bed by himself. He definitely hadn’t had an angel to return the favour to either, white wings sprawled across his legs and the couch cushions as Aziraphale leant back between his knees. Life was funny that way. Ever since time had restarted, things had rearranged themselves in the strangest of ways.

Even now, matters appeared to be taking an unexpected course. Aziraphale seemed hesitant to move to their usual spot, looking up at the apple tree’s branches spreading all through the hallway. “I do always so love this tree. And in this _light…_” He turned to Crowley, a pleading look in his eyes, his small smile betraying he knew exactly what he was doing. “You don’t suppose we could arrange our spot here, just for today? Maybe a duvet, a few pillows…”

Crowley’s smile widened in amusement. The glow of dawn was rather pretty indeed, falling in through tender leaves and pale flowers, giving them a translucent, luminous quality; a treeful of living light. “Alright then. Another favour thrown in absolutely free.” He snapped his fingers, drawing power upwards. “But we’re doing it my way. My house, after all.”

Normally, Crowley only drew power upwards from Hell (to the great but helpless chagrin of the Downstairs miracle administration; the lower downs had decided it’d be more trouble than it was worth to try and remove him from their systems). Today, he also drew up something else. As Aziraphale’s eyes widened, something happened to the point where the tree’s wide, sunken basin lined up with the dark floor tiles; said tiles dissolved one by one, being replaced first by soft earth and then by rapidly growing, softer grass and small wildflowers, all very surprised to find themselves on the top floor of a Mayfair apartment in autumn. A fresh, earthy scent filled the already lush air of Crowley’s paradisical hallway, and Aziraphale clasped his hands to his chest as the grass enveloped the tree’s roots, creating a miniature garden for them. “_Crowley…_”

The demon shrugged half-heartedly, glaring critically at his handiwork. “What can I say, the Garden left its marks. But this is the last addition of this sort I’m letting you add,” he warned, pointedly but with a half-smirk betraying the clear lie. “Let you make _me_ add. Whatever.” He settled on the brand new green carpet, flinging out long legs and patting the grass between them. “C’mere.”

Aziraphale obliged, smile like the sun, momentarily resting his warm weight against Crowley’s chest. The demon eagerly welcomed him, snaking his arms around him and pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Spread ‘em.”

“Oh. Yes. Let me just –” Aziraphale shrugged out of his coat, and then, like it was nothing at all, out of his waistcoat as well. Crowley had just enough time to feel his cheeks heat up at the nigh-indecent sight of the angel’s undershirt before white feathers fanned out before his eyes, and he was left with a moment of flustered hesitation before gently sinking his fingers in between Heavenly down.

He’d never take this for granted, he knew. Simply being able to touch Aziraphale, feel the angel’s body against his in this show of pure trust, he actively _hoped_ he’d never get used to it. A blissful, fuzzy warmth bloomed in his chest, as if he was the one getting his vanes straightened and the celestial equivalent to hair pain worked out of his system. He felt Aziraphale relaxing under his hands, wings twitching and gently drooping, and as the angel sighed and gave a minute roll of his shoulders, the demon had to scramble for a distraction from what it was doing to his heart rate. “Do you, uh. Do you _ever_ groom these yourself at all, angel?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Aziraphale clearly intended to primly state, only for it to come out in a blissed-out mumble. “’S just. You’re _better_ at it, my dear.” The wing Crowley presently wasn’t working on curved backwards to stroke the demon’s cheek. “I mean. It’s better when _you…_” His voice trailed off, and Crowley had to steady himself for a moment. “Hedonist,” he uttered, pretending he still had the capacity for fond admonishment, but managing no better than a croak.

Of course, he’d always known the angel not-so-subtly requested things of him because he liked to be indulged in whatever small way they could get away with, and Crowley liked indulging him at least as much, but to hear it admitted? Knowing beyond any doubt or pretense that Aziraphale’s hedonism included being groomed by _him?_ It was enough to glaze over Crowley’s thoughts with a fine layer of white noise. It didn’t still his fingers, though; he’d be blessed if he let this be interrupted.

Aziraphale settled into a dreamy, trancelike state as his wings were thoroughly doted on, letting out small noises of contentment and gradually letting go of all tension in his body, as well as all clear thought in his head. Similarly, Crowley settled into a comfortable routine of straightening and smoothing out feathers, simply enjoying the intimacy and the sunlight falling in across Westminster and through the tree’s branches.

Then Aziraphale quietly reached up and undid his bowtie, causing his collar to loosen and slightly fall open. Crowley found himself leaning forward between white wings all of a sudden, gently sliding the garment away a little further, lightly pressing his lips to the curve of the angel’s neck.

The apple tree, which had not been paying attention and wasn’t about to start now, nonetheless found itself pleasantly surprised to have opened twice as many pale flowers to the light as Crowley snaked his arms around Aziraphale’s waist and marched a line of feather-soft kisses up to his jaw. The angel’s wings shivered, his head slowly shifting to the side to expose more of himself to the demon’s lips. He let out a soft sound of enjoyment more delicious than anything Crowley had ever heard in a restaurant, and his kisses grew more dedicated in reply, lingering, leaving little marks, and then being joined by an ever-so-gentle graze of fangs.

Aziraphale’s wings stiffened, trapping him between them. Then the angel craned back his head and fervently captured his lips before they could land again.

“I love you,” Aziraphale whispered in the half-breath between two kisses, and all of a sudden Crowley’s heart seized up with it. Here he was, sitting in soft grass beneath an arguably supernatural apple tree, white feathers still between the reverent fingers of one hand, white curls gently tangled in the other. It was everything he’d initially wanted when struck with that first instant of dizzying infatuation up on Eden’s walls, the instant he’d started yearning for the one thing he couldn’t have just after seeing where that’d landed Adam and Eve. This moment, right here in the echoes of Eden, was six thousand years resolved. _Stars, angel, I love you too._

He hadn’t even realized he’d touched his occult self, and his mind with it, to Aziraphale’s. Judging by the warmth the angel radiated back, he’d communicated his memories and feelings right along with his thoughts. _Really, dearest?_ Aziraphale drew back slightly, fond amusement in his eyes. “This is what you wanted to do, back when we met? To kiss an angel beneath the Tree of freshly committed original sin? How _wicked,_ darling.”

Crowley cracked a self-conscious grin. “It may have crossed my mind.” They’d lingered in Eden for a few days, before Adam and Eve had broken up their makeshift desert encampment near its walls and really set out into the world, and the meadow had seemed damned inviting to a foolish young demon. “But, uh. That was all before I knew you were its guardian, of course.”

He nervously stroked Aziraphale’s feathers. Why had he said that? The angel didn’t need reminding of what’d happened back then –

He could _feel_ Aziraphale’s mood shifting, see the dreamy expression fading from his eyes. The angel drew back slightly. “Ah. What was it you said earlier?” His voice was quiet, thoughtful. “The Garden left its marks…” He folded his wings, wrapped his arms around himself. White feathers slipped out of Crowley’s fingers, and he drew back his hand at once. “Angel, I’m sorry.”

Six thousand years ago, Aziraphale had failed his first duty on Earth, as no version of history would ever let him forget. Heaven had been about as forgiving then as it was now; the angel had been demoted, from a flaming four-winged Cherub to a much lower-ranking Principality, his eyes turning down to Earth where previously they’d gazed directly onto God. He and Crowley both suspected he’d been stationed on Earth permanently as an extension of this punishment as well, though neither of them had ever interpreted it that way. Still, Crowley had been hard-pressed to believe Aziraphale did not resent him on some level for his role in the whole matter, and was still occasionally struck by intrusive doubt now, even though the angel hadn’t expressed anything of the sort in six millennia.

“Can I tell you something silly, my dear?” Aziraphale’s voice had grown impossibly smaller. Crowley carefully ran a hand down his back. “Of course.”

“I still miss my wings. My _other_ wings.”

Not for the first time, Crowley imagined the sight his angel would’ve made as a Cherub, framed by a nigh-endless sea of shining feathers, his halo and aura probably too bright for demonic eyes to endure – but he’d have tried to look anyway. “That’s not silly. I get it.” Time hadn’t existed before Creation; Aziraphale had been a Cherub for a timeless eternity, and a Principality for only six thousand years. “If I could clearly remember what it was like Before, I’d probably miss it too.”

“It’s not that I’d want to be a Cherub again,” the angel hurried. “Heavens, no. Those high and mighty Choirs are ever so out of touch with everything. But my wings… it’s just…” He looked up at Crowley, a quiet sort of distress in his eyes. They’d never really talked about this after Aziraphale had told him about the demotion just a short while ago. Crowley suspected their flight at dawn had something to do with it bubbling to the surface now. “You want to tell me how they…” His voice trailed off. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to hear. But if Aziraphale needed to get it off his chest, he’d be there to listen. “You told me there was no… physical business.”

“There wasn’t. The Archangels took me aside, informed me, and… miracled it done.”

“Much like your trial in Heaven.” Cold, hands-off, detached. Much like the Fall, too. Just a hand opening and dropping you, discarding you like a misbehaving houseplant[2].

“Rather.” Aziraphale shivered. “You know, sometimes I have this… strange, horrid thought. That I would’ve found it easier if there _had_ been cutting. Pain. Scars. As it was, I felt nothing at all. They were just gone.”

Only a demon instantly yanked down from Her grace could really sympathize with that. Only Crowley could really grasp the unique way it affected Aziraphale, even now. He considered the angel’s words, recalling the day he’d miracled a paint stain off a beloved coat at Tadfield Manor because Aziraphale had disliked the idea of doing it himself. “You feel like they’re still there. Underneath.”

The angel hummed briefly. “On the money, dear boy. Like they’re _just_ out of reach.” A little joyless chuckle. “At least having to heal and bearing scars would’ve made it real, given it a sense of farewell, perhaps? Not this denial of having had them to begin with.” His hand wandered to his back, to a spot beneath his remaining wings where Crowley knew only smooth, unmarred skin to be.

Crowley was intimately familiar with the stages of grief. He could imagine they also applied to the loss of a limb, let alone two perfectly healthy ones, no matter the method of that loss. He grimaced, and then briefly closed his eyes realizing Aziraphale wouldn’t have gone through those stages at all; up until horribly recently, the angel had been convinced Heaven was and always had been inherently _right_ about everything, and he most probably hadn’t expressed any anger, or even considered doing any bargaining. He’d even suppressed any sadness up until telling him about the whole business at all, just a few short months ago.

The demon was once again reminded that where Hell was fond of threatening brimstone and physical agony, Heaven didn’t pull any punches on the mental aspect – and as he well knew, having dealt with both, those scars lingered far longer.

The demon cocked his head. He _had_ dealt with both. _Hmm._

He glanced at the slender black ring on Aziraphale’s left ring finger – engagement, soon to be wedding. Just like the beautifully detailed golden ring on his own right hand had been and still was the angel’s mark of divinity, so the black ring had been a part of himself – and an angelic part at that, somehow retained through the Fall, merely dyed black. “Aziraphale. You told me you could sense the angel I used to be, through that.” He nodded at the ring. “You told me I used to be one of the Ophanim.”

“Yes.”

“Well, if I recall correctly, Cherubim and Ophanim are the only Choirs with four wings, right?” The Archangels carried around an unwieldy six, and Dominions and lower had only two. “Can I tell you something silly too? I’ve, uh. I’ve been wondering what that would be like.” He offered the angel a slight, hesitant half-smile. “And hey, there is a way for us both to…”

“…to have four wings again.” The angel briefly held his breath. “Together.”

Crowley felt his cheeks heat up at how quickly Aziraphale got his meaning. “Only if you want to.”

“_Oh._” Aziraphale brought a hand to his lips, his halo flaring to life in sudden, flustered wisps of light. “You… you reckon that’ll work?”

Crowley shifted in an equally flustered half-shrug. “Only one way to find out.” He stilled, unsure of anything he’d just considered, said and suggested, but Aziraphale’s halo only glowed brighter.

The angel blushed in his arms, and the apple tree above them opened a few more flowers. “I’d say it’s… oh, definitely worth a try.” He took Crowley’s hands, ever so gently, guiding them to his loosened bowtie and the topmost button of his undershirt. Crowley had already turned as scarlet as his hair, but found himself unable to look away, not even to hide his face against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Well,” the demon managed, tremulously starting on the buttons, “in that case… where were we…?”

Aziraphale melted against him. “Right about here, I believe,” he murmured back, momentarily dissipating his wings to let his undershirt slide off his shoulders, fully exposing himself to Crowley’s increasingly sure touch. “Then let me tempt you,” the demon muttered like an incantation, already dizzy on the slide of smooth skin and the feeling of Aziraphale’s heartbeat speeding up right alongside his own. “Allow me to fit all of me… to you…”

The angel shivered and tensed up, feathers standing on end, and suddenly ripples of golden light spread in the wake of Crowley’s fingers. He shuddered in turn as the angel arched his back, reaching backwards to caress his cheek with a sigh. The demon could physically feel his eyes go fully yellow. His breath hitched, and he scarcely knew what was happening as Aziraphale suddenly twisted in his arms, hungrily realigning them both. Crowley found himself with a lapful of very eager angel, kissing every word from his lips, impatiently fumbling with glimmering black buttons. The demon only refrained from letting himself be pushed back long enough to blindly shuck off his jacket and shirt, every inch of him aching with want, and then there was only the blessed heat of skin on skin in the grass beneath the apple tree. The both of them completely missed the fruits in the canopy turning to pears, and wouldn’t have known whose miracle it was anyway.

He could safely say this was better than dawn in Paradise. Aziraphale was a wave of fire and light and divine pleasure above him, and he could only hope he wasn’t getting too lost in it to give back as good as he got. Judging by the angel’s reactions, though, he was doing just fine.

They drew back for just a moment, both fully inhuman now. Aziraphale was a golden conflagration, light shimmering in his feathers and his hair, all aglow save for the ring on his finger. Crowley was black and red with scales, fanged and snake-tongued. “Don’t look away,” the demon whispered urgently, fervently, on fire with divinity, desire and devotion.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Aziraphale murmured back, steadily losing himself in the rippling gold of the demon’s eyes. Crowley saw it happen, felt it happen, couldn’t conceive of stopping it as they fell into eachother, light and darkness mingling at every single point of contact. If they’d fleetingly passed eachother when swapping bodies, they caught eachother with open arms now, swept eachother off their metaphysical feet for a dance all their own.

Crowley felt a stray thought of Aziraphale’s brush by him, fleeting like a curling wisp of golden vapour; a word the angel had once come across that’d bubbled up now. _Exulansis. The tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it._

The angel was fluttery with mirth, physically smiling into the curve of Crowley’s neck and mentally aglow. He’d experienced plenty of exulansis in Heaven, but… _We don’t have that problem,_ Crowley snickered back. _Come here._

Aziraphale’s joy at Crowley’s efforts, Crowley’s willingness to understand and help and his happiness at being _able_ to help, it all became a giddy, reeling tailspin, like falling into the blazing dawn together, ever faster. They fell like stars, swift and certain, yanked from the firmament on an inevitable collision course. They fell because they knew they’d be caught –

_You’re so… we’re so… we’re…_

– and then they _were_ caught, in a single impossible moment that shone neither black nor white, but purest silver, like a mirror-calm pond, like the heart of the brightest star, like a midsummer moon over Berkeley Square.

Milton had been right on the money regarding the lovemaking of angels. _Easier than air with air, if spirits embrace; total they mix, union of pure with pure._ One of the parties involved being a demon made no difference at all.

_I…_

Equally impossibly, they held the shining moment, unfurling it into something new. They held it, breathless and speechless, long enough to open four silver wings. They held it, shining and shuddering and exalting in the glory of it. This was not a touch to be endured for long, but _oh,_ Crowley had wanted to give Aziraphale _everything,_ and after too long suppressing himself Aziraphale couldn’t get enough of giving back. The tree above them rapidly jumped through both botanical lineage and multiple mythological squabbles, shifting from pear to pomegranate to fig.

_Is it anything like Before?_ Crowley didn’t ask, because he was no longer capable of linear thought, and he also couldn’t have pinpointed where he ended and Aziraphale began even if he’d wanted to. There was no need to ask. He felt Aziraphale’s joy at being this complete as if it was his own, because it _was_ his own. It was dizzying and overwhelming, but oh, if they just focused a little longer…

_It’s better,_ Aziraphale didn’t say, because Crowley already knew. _It’s always better with you._ Their shared form beamed at itself, silver metaphysical wings stretched themselves to the limit one final time, and then lovingly folded in on themselves to embrace the two overwhelmed bodies on the grass.

“So that’s what having four wings feels like,” Crowley later dreamily sighed up at the branches of a tree rather thankful to be of the apple variety once again. “Pretty great, I must say.”

Aziraphale rolled his head onto his lazily outstretched arm. “What do you reckon we were? Not angel or demon. Certainly not Cherub or Ophan.”

“I don’t think we count as any of those anymore even on a good day, angel.”

“Well, that’s just a contradiction in and of itself. Why’d you still call me ‘angel’, then?” said angel teased, smiling.

“It caught on.”

“What?”

“As a term of endearment.” Crowley kept staring pointedly at the sunlit canopy, for lack of sunglasses. Would look silly anyway, wearing shades and nothing else.

“I’m fairly certain it _became_ a term of endearment,” said the angel, “_because_ you started calling me that.” He pondered for a moment. “Or kept calling me that, I suppose. Just when did it shift from species designation to –”

“Didn’t say I didn’t know what we were,” Crowley hurriedly interjected. “Together, I mean.”

“Hm?”

The demon flopped onto his side to smirk at the angel. “Just what we always were. Meant to be.”

The angel smiled. “That seems about right, my dear. That seems just about right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1Also a general unawareness apple trees were only supposed to bloom once a year, and fruit normally required pollination. It wasn’t just going to let itself be stopped by something like everyday biology.[return to text]
> 
> 2Which was why he’d never been able to bring himself to actually get a garbage disposal, just a tape deck to play a properly menacing whirring sound. Hypocrites belonged in the eighth circle of Hell, and that’d always been way too close to his boss for his liking.[return to text]


End file.
